May 30, 2010

On Friday, I wound up with unexpected tickets to the second of this weekend's four-game series against the Kansas City Royals. The Sox dropped this one in sloppily dramatic fashion, beginning with a Tim Wakefield meltdown.

In the plus column, we had good seats that a friend of mine had lucked into earlier that afternoon, in a field box on the first base side. The night was mild and clear, and I got to spend several hours taking a veritable flip book of Dustin Pedroia's every move.

The Celtics were winning the Eastern Conference Finals vs. the Orlando Magic that night.

"Look at him doing pitcher things!" -- Sam's reaction to super-utility man Bill Hall pitching a perfect ninth. Pretty much the best thing that happened in that whole game.

Yes, the "Bride" here has a "Youuuuuuk!" sticker slapped across her ass.

***

The Sox had lost the night before this, too, and it wouldn't be until the next night that they'd flash some leather behind a dominant Clay Buchholz to win 1-0, and another day before they'd finally get the bats in gear in support of an equally authoritative Jon Lester.

A split series. Mezza-mezz. Half empty or half full?

It's otherwise been a gloriously lazy, sun-drenched Memorial Day weekend, spent catching up with friends and on my sleep in equal portions, interspersed with baseball at Fenway Park. I think I'll go with half full.

______________________

P.S. We were told we were on TV in certain NESN camera shots with runners on first base, so we watched a bit of the replay when we got home. We didn't see ourselves, but we did come across this keeper:

May 28, 2010

Forget that mess of a Daisuke start last night. What I want to talk about is Kevin Millar.

Millar's a member of that 2003-2004 club that will probably always have a unique place in my heart. There have been few Sox I haven't loved in one way or another, and even fewer I haven't liked at all. But the lineup Millar rattled off last night on the pregame show, tossing off names like Billy Mueller, Trot Nixon, Mark Bellhorn -- even the names brought a smile to my face.

Apparently Millar's been getting mixed reviews after his first appearance as a NESN analyst. Me, I don't care what anyone else says, I want him and the Eck on heavy rotation -- preferably together -- forever more. I want Millar to be groomed as Rem-Dawg's heir starting now.

He's still a little green -- someone needs to talk to him about slowing down his twangy auctioneer's speech pattern, for example -- but his ebullience is contagious whether he's on a baseball field or in a broadcast booth. And he has a lexicon to rival Eckersley's ("circling the pillows" was my favorite expression of his last night) along with an audacious sense of humor to rival Pedroia (referring to Joe West as "Cowboy Joe", repeatedly addressing a taken-aback Jim Rice as "Jimmy").

Maybe it's just all the 2003-2004 montages talking. Clearly I have no direct experience in broadcasting. I may be the only one who feels this way. But that was the best pre and postgame show ever, and I still left last night's debacle of a game with a smile and a spring in my step, all because of Millar's irrepressible presence.

The fine line that separates Millar's boisterousness from an Eric Byrnes-style obnoxiousness is the depth that gives his light energy ballast. At heart, there is something dead serious about Kevin Millar, for all the ribbing he dishes out and takes in turn, for all the jokes and winks and "y'alls".

That something, skillfully encapsulated in the video from MLB Tonight that's been making the rounds, is that Kevin Millar loves the game of baseball as much as anyone who's ever donned a glove or held a bat in his hand.

Lots of players talk about loving the game, and who wouldn't love being famous, rich beyond their wildest imaginings, and playing a game for a living? But Millar's love is different -- nothing has come easy to him, and he's never known that star spotlight. He clawed his way up from the St. Paul Saints, and charmed and battled his way through more than a dozen Major League seasons, all while freely admitting to anyone who asked that he was a bad player. "I don't have any of the five tools," Millar says in that video. "But the one tool that I've always felt I had in my heart is that I loved it more than anybody."

Stories of overcoming adversity are, almost by definition, widespread in the Major Leagues. And each player handles it in a different way. Pedro Martinez's inborn rage propelled him past the seeming limitations of a slight frame to become a dominant power pitcher. Dustin Pedroia's fierce, unrelenting tenacity has similarly served him. With Millar, the strength has come from his devotion, his palpable awe whenever he steps out of the dugout, the grin that spreads across his face under his eyeblack and sunglasses.

One of my most vivid memories of Millar -- perhaps the most vivid, despite its relative insignificance -- is the shot of him in the dugout after the Sox dropped the ALDS in 2005. Millar was the last to leave the bench. Tears were standing in his eyes as he bit his lip. It wasn't the loss he was upset about -- it was the fact that he knew these would be his last moments in a Sox uniform at Fenway Park.

There has always been something extra, something rare, going on behind those twinkling eyes. Watching it bubble to the surface like that -- I'll never forget the power of that image in that moment, the way Millar's cheerful veneer pulled back and revealed a true, deep, pure passion that took my breath away.

How else do you explain his return to the St. Paul Saints after his release from the Chicago Cubs this year (incredibly, his first-ever release from an MLB team)? How many other big league players, especially those with decade-plus careers, would actually do this, just for the chance to keep strapping on the cleats every day, and to work with younger players?

"[Baseball] is all I've known," Millar says against a shot of darkened Minnesota streets in the video linked above. As far as I'm concerned, whether he's on the field, in the dugout as a coach or manager, or delighting us from the press box, it's all he ever needs to know. He may not be a Hall of Famer, but that kind of heart has its own special place in the game.

May 27, 2010

But seriously. How awesome is it that, having taken their first win of the season against the Rays this year with the first game of this week's series, the mercurial Sox just up and decided they'd take 'em all?

Especially against one of the two teams it has seemed like the Red Sox just can't beat this year.

The biggest reason for this was the Red Sox starting pitching seeming to come into its own. Jon Lester especially seems to be turning it on after a slow start. That cutter's just devastating, his narrowed eyes above the glove tucked under his chin now the source of a positively Beckettsian intimidation factor. And Clay Buchholz is making me quite happy by bearing out my prediction that consistent playing time would allow him to blossom. It sucks for Wake, but I'm still glad it wasn't Buch they sent to the pen.

But that's not to disavow the contributions from the offense this series, especially David Ortiz, who was swatting balls around the Trop and blasting off like it was the old days. Adrian Beltre had a huge night last night with 6 RBI, and Pedroia got back on track with a three-fer performance Tuesday, including a lucky shot off the ceiling that had the Elf chuckling to himself at second base.

There are chain reactions, too, whenever one part of the team improves. Papi returning to being a threat helps his teammates up and down the lineup. The starters going deep saves the bullpen, which makes their appearances more crisp and effective (especially MDC). Not walking around with half a dozen Red Sox fans and beat writers up their butts each will also probably help the team play better defense.

This series went about as well as can be expected, but it's still always a relief to get away from road games against these dome teams. I think @RedSoxRedShoes put it best when he described the Trop this way: "I cannot believe Tropicana Field is an MLB stadium. It looks like someone puked Tinker Toys inside of a snare drum."

May 15, 2010

When I posted the above photo to Flickr last May, Sam commented: "Evocative of better times."

Comerica also seemed to conjure memories of the All-Star Game, now an unbelievable half-decade ago, that saw Papi launching long balls with ease -- for fun -- over the vast outfield in Detroit.

A year later, in the midst of his 51-homer 2006, that year where Papi would end up the one bright spot in an otherwise injury-riddled and disappointing season, I wrote:

Papi didn't have the most home runs in the first round of the Derby,
but Holy God, if they were giving out an award for the prettiest, he'd
have it hands down, on any number of his ten moon shots, most of them
over everything. This just after they trotted out a physics professor to
talk about how the best way to put a ball in the river just outside the
park was to pull it into the little notch just on the fair side of the
pole in right--Ortiz put several into the river, notch be damned.

Probably my favorite was the one to dead center that still went over
everything, including the ESPN bozos chattering away in their booth.

That sound off Ortiz's bat--that ringing, meaty THWACK--and
the way the ball goes tailing off into orbit while he stands and
watches, a great dark figure under the stadium lights...there's
something so sublime about David Ortiz, his happiness, his booming
power, his unfailing interior light. People talk (at least
half-jokingly) about Albert Pujols being divine, but I think that if God
chose to incarnate himself as ballplayer, it's a pretty safe bet he'd
be this one.

This is why the Sox once made up a batting title for Papi -- the Most Clutch Hitter of All Time. It ultimately means nothing, at least from a mathematical point of view. But it conveys the sense we've always had that there's something exceptional about Ortiz, whether he'll be a Hall of Famer or not. Over the last two seasons it's been easy to forget the fearsome figure he once cut at the plate -- last night it was easier to remember.

It almost exasperated me, listening to Jerry Remy's incredulity at the spot in the stands where Papi's 450-foot blast had landed, and later, watching him trot the bases, almost chagrined, after crushing another one over the fence. After all this pain and struggle, and acceptance that maybe Papi's time in the sun is over, he goes popping off like that again, leaving us to cling to potentially false hope for another little while. One game -- even a two-homer game, even if those homers are gargantuan -- does not mean Papi's Back. But it's safe to say he once again has my attention.

And if anybody should've accompanied Papi in going yard last night, it was the man who so eloquently stuck up for him with the now-immortal "laser show" comment, his opposite in stature but equal in uncanny power, Dustin Pedroia.

I thought about going and checking out just what Detroit's record is so far this season, and it was made clear from the broadcast booth that last night's Tigers starter, Max Scherzer, is far from a Cy Young contender, but for now I'm not looking a feel-good game in the mouth.

P.S. I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but hopefully I'll be getting back to the blog more this week.

May 05, 2010

On a night drenched in honey-gold sunset at Fenway Park, a familiar figure crossed the warning track, in a white jersey with a scarlet number 5 on the back.

Am I being manipulated as a fan, for whatever reason? I guess. Is the whole thing a little awkward, like seeing an ex while out somewhere, and making polite conversation even as you remember how bitterly things ended? Sure.

And honestly, I thought I was over it. I really thought I was over the schmaltz of welcoming Nomar back, when trading him was what led to the championship in 2004.

The thing that made the whole Nomar situation so painful was the lack of closure. The last time we saw him, he was walking out of the clubhouse in Minnesota in that white dress shirt. The next time, he was in an Oakland uniform, and by then it was all water under the bridge. The fans of Fenway never had a chance to know they were embracing Nomar for the last time. We can try to re-create that moment, and have in the years since, but it won't ever be quite the same.

And it wasn't just Nomar, it was Trot, it was Wake and Tek, it was all those guys of approx. 2003 - 2004 back together again on the field. We'll never go through what we went through with those players again, and I suspect those faces will always have direct access to my heartstrings. And I guess tonight stirred all that up. Which was probably the idea. Sigh.

Meanwhile...

Dustin Pedroia continues to fling himself around the field like his ass is on fire. And like his teammates' asses are on fire, and he's launching himself over there to single-handedly save the day. He's just a ball of furious, relentless energy, and I absolutely adore him.

John Lackey was brilliant tonight, surrendering just one run against his former team.

David Ortiz hit an opposite-field home run that was greeted with an audible gasp from the crowd, followed by a thundering standing ovation.

Daniel Bard was FILTHY.

Adrian Beltre hit a bomba gigante to dead center, his second homer in three nights and made a nifty play at third. Scooter made another nice pick at short.

Also, vintage Papelbon was in the house tonight.

I really, really hope May is going to be "The Red Sox Make Us All Look Like Assholes for Ever Worrying" Month.

May 04, 2010

It's been an especially intense day around here. The water was finally safe to drink again, meaning millions of coffee addicts were finally able to get their Starbucks or Dunkies fix, and could finally stop getting into punchouts with each other at the grocery store over cases of Poland Spring. As if that wasn't enough, tonight, the baseball addicts in Red Sox Nation also got a wallop of beautiful baseball.

It began with a taut eight-inning pitchers' duel between Jon Lester and Ervin Santana. Both lineups resorted to the kind of small-ball scrapping that tells you they are under siege from a true monster on the mound, just hunkering down and trying to take advantage of mistakes until the bullpen comes around. Jon Lester continued the rampage he began in Toronto, clenching his jaw through 8 innings on 120 economical pitches tonight while surrendering just one run.

On top of that, at long last we saw Run Prevention in action this evening, with a breathtaking play from Dustin Pedroia to end a bases-loaded, one-out eighth. I have seen some dispute over whether Pedroia tagged the runner, but I have to believe that if there was really a case to be made for that, Mike Scioscia would've been out there flipping out about it before any of the rest of us noticed it. And in any event, Pedroia's diving, scrambling, flipping masterpiece was the most thrilling play I'd seen since Marco Scutaro's incredible ranging throw from the hole in the fourth.

There was ugliness, hideousness, even, as David Ortiz twice came to the plate with runners on, and both times grounded into a double play. The best I can do right now is allow him the dignity of not discussing it or the boo-birds much further.*

Because no sooner had Papi trudged off the field, head bowed, than young Jeremy Hermida strode to the plate, and finally delivered the killing blow the park had been jonesing for the whole night, and I'll tell you, no matter how obnoxious some of our fellow frequenters of Fenway Park can sometimes be, for all the nasty GIDPs and defensive lapses of this season, there really is nothing like the moment some crucial, timely hit goes rocketing off toward the outfield, and that place just explodes.

Kevin Youkilis was jumping up and down like a little boy in the on-deck area, waving his arms in great semicircles around his head to signal to his teammates whether they should stand up or slide coming into home. Jon Lester, in the dugout, asked of those around him, "Is that fair or foul? Is it fair? Yes?" and then he, too, was subsumed in the wave of hysteria, pumping his fist and yelling like any one of the fans who were rattling the grandstand. "YEAH!!"

I think it's safe to say every one of us really needed that. Without a doubt, the best game of the season so far.

* Except to say: I don't care how bad he is, that shit ain't right. If I could ban you from Fenway Park forever, I would. If I could take tonight's joy away from you somehow, I would. But like I said on Twitter, I also became pretty jaded to this when I saw a "fan" heckle Keith Foulke to the point of a verbal altercation, a year after the guy left his knees on the field winning a World Series for which he should have been MVP, but wasn't. (Not that I'm, um, bitter or anything.) I figured it was pretty much only a matter of time before even Papi was turned on by the Fenway crowd. And to be honest, virtually any other player would've been turned on long before this point.

April 10, 2010

Most people are probably going to come down on the bullpen for tonight's loss, the third in four games in which they were handed a lead and promptly blew it.

I can't say I disagree, necessarily. It is worrisome to see Daniel Bard, especially, first give up a towering blast to right field off the bat of Alberto Callaspo that just barely grazed past the pole foul. After that, to quote Eckersley, "Bard wanted no part of him," and walked Callaspo, putting him on base with David DeJesus, whom he'd inherited from Hideki Okajima, at third. Willie Bloomquist pinch-ran for Callaspo and stole second while Bard K'd Billy Butler.

And then Rick Ankiel, the pitcher-turned-outfielder, already a triple shy of the cycle on the night, cleaned Bard's clock and the bases with a broken-bat blooper into shallow left, scoring both runners to take the lead and eventually, the win.

But that's not to say the offense was all lily-white in this. Despite getting to Kyle Davies (thanks to a manufactured run and then a titanic two-run straightaway-center blast by JD Drew in the top of the fourth) and summoning what was supposed to be a pinata of a Kansas City bullpen, the Sox offense couldn't capitalize on a dizzying parade of journeymen who before this game had collectively amassed a 13.50 ERA (small sample size, and citing ERA revealing me to be a know-nothing cretin notwithstanding).

They also created several woulda-coulda-shoulda situations on the basepaths, beginning with a gaffe by Jacoby Ellsbury trying to stretch a double in the first inning, and followed by an abortive steal attempt by JD Drew in the top of the seventh. And not capitalizing on three walks in one inning? What's up with that?

The inning I'm sure the hitters would most love to have back, though, was the top of the third, where the Sox loaded the bases on Davies, and then were left holding their collective you-know-whats, sans runs, after V-Mart grounded into a double play.

If it hadn't been for the two nights that came before -- if it wasn't now constituting a mini-trend -- I'm not sure the offense wouldn't be taking just as much heat as the 'pen assuredly will for this game. Run prevention vs. run production is sometimes a bit of a chicken-and-egg proposition.

***

Have I ever mentioned how much I adore Dustin Pedroia?

Okay, don't answer that. Cause I'm gonna talk about it again anyway.

I do not understand how he packs so much strength into that little body. The play of the game, to me, was Pedroia's relay to home plate to gun down Jose Guillen after Mike Cameron muffed a fly ball in center -- he threw a strike to V-Mart from second base. Over and over, NESN showed the replay of that throw while Remy gushed. And deservedly so.

Even more impressive -- in a way, anyway -- was Pedroia's appearance against Joakim Soria with two outs in the top of the ninth and the tying run on second in the person of Mike Cameron. Pedroia was quickly down 0-2 on a called strike and a foul, then saw an incredible seven more nasty pitches, five of which he fouled off before getting under the ninth pitch of the at-bat and flying out to end the game.

Obviously it would've been better if he'd gotten a hit or a dinger. But there's something I just love about the breakneck ferocity of Pedroia's determination at all times. He flings his whole body into the infield dirt when he's playing the field or sliding between the bases. He pours every molecule of himself into a rifle-shot from shallow right center to gun down a runner at home. And against a closer the Eck would name as the league's top "unknown closer" in the postgame show, even down to the team's last strike, Pedroia set his jaw in that way he has, glowered out at the mound, and fouled off pitch after pitch after pitch after pitch after pitch after pitch.

In the midst of tonight's debacle, all jutting chin and puffed-up chest, staring down opponents like they'd just killed his dog, Pedroia was an island of awesome,

April 05, 2010

This off-season, after the Red Sox let go of Jason Bay and the winter months flew past without directly replacing his power in the lineup, an argument began. The discussion has largely split along partisan lines in baseball's culture war between stats and gut feelings, between those who see this past offseason's moves as the philosophy of Run Prevention in action and those who see doom in a potentially diminished offense with the droughts of
the previous July and October still fresh in the collective memory.

The night began heady with anticipation and a tearjerking hug between Pedro Martinez, who threw out the first pitch, and Johnny Pesky, along with fireworks and a flyover of fighter jets. A matter of hours later, the anticlimax seemed complete, with Josh Beckett heading to the showers early and the Yankees generally pissing upon the Opening Night festivities at the old ballyard. Right then, around the fifth inning, the temptation to decry Run Prevention as 2010's answer to 2003's Closer By Committee was fierce indeed.

The fourth inning had also featured Jacoby Ellsbury clanking off the Monster and missing a fly ball by about a yard in left, and the Yankees pulling off a double steal of second and home to score their fifth run after firing up the merry-go-round on Beckett, thereby giving that whole Run Prevention idea a swift kick right in the jimmies. Thus resumed, at least for a time, the chicken and egg debate that had come to define this off-season.

What I was forgetting, at that point, was that this was a Sox / Yankees game, and so there were still about six hours to go. And as usual in a Sox / Yankees game, the ensuing events would render any conclusions made and
inferences drawn in the fourth or fifth inning largely irrelevant by
game's end.

What the Sox offense lacked in power early on against Sabathia, they made up for in patience, wearing CC down and tearing into the Yankees bullpen by the sixth inning. When all was said and done, the same Pedroia-Martinez-Youkilis combination that buried the Twins last week in Ft. Myers sent the big man packing with Kevin Youkilis panting behind him on third, having cleared the bases with a standup triple.

Then came Adrian Beltre, who knocked Youkilis in to tie the game and hang a fifth run on CC to match Beckett's.

In the bottom of the seventh, Dustin Pedroia was rewarded for his ability to restrain himself from planting a knuckle sandwich on Angel Hernandez (who took a page out of CB Bucknor's playbook this evening at first base) with a towering Monster shot off Chan Ho Park to tie things up again.

Damaso Marte was next out of the bullpen for the Yanks after
Pedroia's blast, and once again there was Youkilis at
third base, having taken it on a passed ball. Another passed ball a few pitches later sent Youk across the plate
with the go-ahead run.

In the bottom of the eighth, with the table nicely set by Cameron and Scutaro, Pedroia showed up for an ass-kicking encore, delivering the ninth Sox run against Joba Chamberlain.

In the end, not many Runs were Prevented, on either side. 9-7 Sox on 12 hits. The Yankees racked up a dozen of their own. And I wonder if we'll still be arguing about this in June.

March 28, 2010

NESN and other members of the Fourth Estate on the Sox beat made a big, ironically humorous deal out of the Mayor's Cup today. Here's how the Projo's Brian MacPherson described today's prize:

Spring training is complete now that the Red Sox have clinched their fourth straight Mayor's Cup over the Minnesota Twins, three-run home runs from David Ortiz and Tug Hulett providing more than enough offense to back Clay Buchholz.

A piece of athletic tape already was on the Mayor's Cup "trophy" in the Red Sox clubhouse after the game -- though whoever inscribed it accidentally wrote "2000" and had to draw a thick line through one of the zeroes to make sure it read "2010."

Such is the thrill the Mayor's Cup elicits in the Red Sox clubhouse.

Yard-sale trophy or not, the Sox would end up taking it in truly dramatic fashion, with a 16-hit, 11-run onslaught against the Twins, including a three-run jimmy jack to put the game away by the gentleman shown cradling the Mayor's crunk cup trophy above.

And hey, I'll take it. For one thing, even a tongue-in-cheek hint of real competition is welcome this time of year.

For another, given how just two years ago Clay Buchholz reminded me of a stage-frightened child in a dance recital once he'd given up a home run, watching him turn things around today after Joe Mauer bludgeoned one of his fastballs to death in the first inning was pretty gratifying as well.

In fact, Buchholz's rough start didn't end there -- though the Sox came back to tie the game in the bottom of the first, he spotted the Twins their two-run lead back right away in the top of the second.

In the third, though, Buchholz picked up his first goose egg, and the Sox bats began slapping Carl Pavano silly, thanks to a lethal V-Mart / Pedroia / Youkilis combination at the top of the order (a combined 11 for 13 today, contributing a collective 8 runs).

By the fourth inning, the Sox pulled away, 8-4, thanks to Papi's round-tripper. In the sixth, Tug Hulett and his unforgettable moniker officially began to enrich our lives, when he tacked on his own three-run blast off the second coming of El Guapo.

Meanwhile, Buchholz grew stronger and more confident as the game went on. He had surrendered four runs in six outs to start things off, but he didn't get that deer-in-the-headlights look. He stayed focused and settled, retiring the last nine hitters he faced.

MacPherson's verdict is that there was good news and bad news for Buchholz. And of course there's always small sample size, it's early yet, blah blah.

But from the new muscle he's added in the off-season to the way he regained his poise on the mound this afternoon, there's no denying that the Stickbug has grown.

March 24, 2010

It was the second time I'd worried a friend with my initial reaction to a Red Sox injury. "Ohhh, shiiiittt..." I breathed at Facebook, where a link to a story headlined "Pedroia sprains left wrist, day-to-day" sat in my news feed. Like the people I was with at a Lowell Spinners game when Jonathan Papelbon came off the mound clutching his shoulder in 2006, my friend Ryan thought at first I'd received news of a personal emergency.

A good night's sleep later, I'm a little more Zen. A little.

These things happen, especially during camp when players are still improving their conditioning. And if there ever was a tough sonofabitch, it's the guy who hit homers in the World Series with a broken hamate bone.

It's also weird, watching the video of the injury happening. We've seen Pedroia do this a thousand times -- rush into the hole between first and second, sprawl himself out on the ground, vacuum up the ball into his glove, and leap to his feet to throw.

Except this time, Pedroia threw the ball well wide of a ready and waiting Kevin Youkilis at first. Then, he grabbed his wrist.

This wasn't a Hideki Matsui situation. It's not obvious exactly how he managed to hurt himself this time. Maybe, if it was such a routine, mild-looking play, it's a routine, mild injury. (Shh! I'm trying to rationalize, here!)

And if there's a time of year to be nursing injury, it would obviously be early, before pennant races get heated.

Then again, as the Soxaholix points out, not all wrist injuries are created equal, and the bitch of it is that we just don't know if this is going to be a Papi-type wrist situation, which, frankly, would be a nightmare of a bummer for us Pedroia enthusiasts.

Also, if there's a time in Spring Training NOT to get hurt, it would probably be right now -- just as the intensity is ramping up and games grow more serious, as fine-tuning gives way to true preparation for the season. Instead of moving to the next level with teammates, Pedroia will now have a setback to deal with.

It's not the end of the world, but it's not what you want to see, either.

The surest sign that Pedroia was as good as the X-rays said was that he
was already lobbying Francona to be back in the lineup for Thursday's
home game against the Marlins.

"I think what we'll do is let him take BP tomorrow and play him
[Friday]," Francona said. "He's OK. There's no swelling. Actually he's a
little bit sore higher, which is real good. He got a clean bill of
health."

I'll step back from the ledge...until the next thing crops up, at least. Because, of course, you know something always will.

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